


Frame-by-Frame

by BlackKat13 (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU Post Game, Angst, Coma, M/M, Multi, No one remembers the Game well, Romance, So many more tags, Time Shenanigans, Time speed warping, but I can't even think right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/BlackKat13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a Post Game AU. </p><p>When Dave wakes up for the first time in a long, long time, things are supposed to return to normal. </p><p>Things actually go so very, very wrong.</p><p>Or, in which Time and its Knight no longer get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Important Author's Notes!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Two for this story is already in the works, guys,  
> so please let me know what you think of this one!
> 
> It's my first Homestuck fic, and I hope I'm doing it right. xD;;

Hey, guys. Author of Frame-By-Frame here.

So I realize I haven't updated this in so long, and I'm not going to make excuses. I've been busy, but I've had time to work on other projects. I feel like the reason I haven't updated this one particularly, though, can be pegged on how I've changed my writing style and pacing since coming back to the States.

That being said, I'm going to rewrite the first few chapters of this story and then write the rest of the chapters. I've plotted it all out, and it's going to be a minimum of ten chapters, but it has opportunity to get a lot longer. It all depends on how much I want to draw it out.

That also being said, if you want me to update faster, bug me. I mean it. Comment on this, message me, annoy the hell out of my on my tumblr [the-prince-of-night-and-ink]. I'll update it faster when I know that I have people waiting for it! Still, the plan will be to try to update it every Thursday!

Thanks for sticking with me and being patience, guys. Wish me luck!


	2. ==> Welcome To A Very Terrible Situation [For All Involved]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter has been rewritten! Check back next week for the revision of chapter two, or stalk me and bug me on my tumblr [the-prince-of-night-and-ink] to update faster.

**== > Be The Sleeping Strider**

When you awoke, you were still unconscious.

Fucking _great_ , right?

A chilling blend of hatred and dread and fear used to tie knots under your skin along your spine every time you opened your eyes to nothing but the void, but after some time  -- which you don’t even have a real working measure of right now, by the way. You’re pretty sure you’re never going to be able to understand clocks again, not even if there was a bright red one right on the inside of your shades with the words ‘ **Dave’s Time Spent Unconscious** ’. Even then, you would still not be able to understand how in the fuck those numbers made any sense. You’ve been here for an hour, and for ten years, and you don’t know how, but that’s _exactly_ how it feels – the empty darkness became, well, homey.

At least, more so than the dreams.

You never fully remembered the dreams; you only knew they pulled you out of the murky blackness, and when you would awake back into the Vast Unconsciousness, you would feel like your skin was boiling alive or hear the ticking of some distant clock or want to hold yourself together because you could have sworn you were falling into yourself. Even thinking about them made the mental hair on the back of your neck prickle. You were glad you didn’t remember them. From what you’ve gathered, you’re not sure you’d make it back in one piece from those dreams.

You have tried many, many different ways to stop yourself from the dream anchors from pulling you back under the waves, but the only thing that seemed to work so far was focusing on the real world around you. It was a tried and true method, if not a little boring most of the time. You’d occasionally hear some faint, electronic sounds, or mumbling. Voices you understood – and more importantly, voices you _recognized_ and _cared about_ , because you were sick and tired of listening to people gossip over you. I mean, what did you care that Margaret was apparently having _another_ kid? You didn’t know a Margaret. You were not children’s Number #1 Fan, nor would you ever be. You didn’t even think you’ve heard the name Margaret outside of history textbooks, British context, or soap operas – made it the easiest.

At least you knew you weren’t alone in Limbo. The voices were there -- wherever the hell on God’s good Earth they were [and you prayed we were still talking Earth here] – and that kept you sane, because while Striders do not get lonely, Striders can fall into the pits of insanity while blabbering on to themselves in darkness for some unknown period of time.

The usual interruption came from the vocal manifestation of sunshine and puppies and terrible movie tastes and anime and Betty Crocker frosting. His voice would go on and on, never losing its surprising vitality or vigor, even without having another person to, you know, actually hold a conversation? Nope, that never stopped the one and only Jonathan Egbert, your best bro for all of your sixteen-year-old life, from filling you in on all of the shit happening in his life. He complained about Vriska **_a lot_** , which made you clench your teeth together more than you cared to admit. You wished it wasn’t just a one-sided conversation.

Why? Because hearing your possible **One** , the Unironic Love of your Life, the Apple to Your Pie, complain about Vriska and how she dumped him and how miserable he was and how he would miss your movie nights and cuddling even though he was _‘not a homosexual, Dave!’_ was more than you could stand without a not-so casual change in topics.  You were fucked in the romance department harder than a penny whore in Vegas during New Year’s. You wanted to tear your hair out. You wanted to scream. **_‘I don’t CARE about Vriska, John! I. don’t. care. Idon’tcare. Do you know how much I care? Do you? The amount I care about the feelings of Vriska Serket is equal to the amount of pure, unadulterated LOVE I have for Nicholas Cage, John. Do you know how much that is? That is an amount so small that it cannot be expressed in any pre-existing numerical form. The mathematicians across the globe are going to have to invent a new fucking unit of measurement for just how non-exist my care is. There is not even an Angstrom of Care. The only thing I care about is where you are and that you’re upset and how I would love to see you happy and smile and WHY YOU CAN’T HEAR ME, Jesus Christ, John, how deaf are you?!’_**

He didn’t answer. He never did.

Still, it was worth trying now and then, futile as it was. He couldn’t hear you, and even if he could, he was completely oblivious about your feelings – just the way you wanted until you could figure out how to explain it to him without irreparably soiling your broship. Until then, you were more than content listening to him chatter away. Hell, even listening to him read the phone book was preferable over this bunch o’ nothing.

He wasn’t the only one you heard, though.

At first, the only way you could tell there was another person with you was because you could _feel_ them – their hand wrapped larger, calloused hand that was a ginger, yet constant presence around yours. At first, it’s the only way you knew other people were out there. It was the only way you _felt,_ outside of the dreams.

You didn’t want to think about that.

You were surprised you even remembered what human contact felt like, and you had to say, even though you would never admit this to anyone, not even on your deathbed [which this could very well be, you supposed,] it did calm you down. The small, soothing circles their thumb rubbed into your skin made part of you melt into serenity. It bothered you that you couldn’t figure out who that hand belonged to.

The first time you heard them speak, though, the first time that broken syllable left their lips, your heart cracked in two and did a funny little twist that made you hate yourself. He wasn’t supposed to sound like this. He was supposed to sound cocky, charming, smooth – he would never let himself sound so… so… so _human._ So _lost,_ so _wrecked._ His voice wasn’t supposed to crack.

Not because of anyone. Not because of you.

You wanted to reach up and grab onto his hand, to tell him that you were alright, that you were _here_ , but you couldn’t. John couldn’t hear you, and Bro couldn’t hear you either, no matter how loud you cried.

Every time you felt that hand grab yours from then on, you knew exactly who it was. He wasn’t around nearly as much as John was, but you couldn’t blame him. John was a high school student, and while he had extracurricular activities and shit, he did a lot of his homework while he talked to you, it seemed. [He’d ask you questions out loud sometimes, like he was trying to get help with it. You could imagine the way his face would scrunch up as he looked at the problem. Too bad you weren’t much help.] John’d even bring in Jade or Rose or Karkat or TZ with him now and then, to expand upon your little alone time. Rose would often come and knit – you could hear the sounds of the needles. Terezi and Karkat came together once, but Terezi just cried and Karkat yelled at you to stop playing around, and after that, they didn’t come alone anymore. [You hated hearing TZ cry. That shit was not okay.] Either way, they’d all come after school before going home for dinner.

Bro on the other hand was a working adult, running an Internet and remixed empire that he couldn’t just put on hold because of whatever the fuck was going on with you. You understood that. You figured he came as often as he could, and that was more than enough for you.

You didn’t hear his voice again, though, for a long time after that first word. He wasn’t John; he didn’t tell you how his day was, or what he was up to, or little things about the weather or the news. He didn’t speak about more Bro-friendly topics, like anime or puppets or Lil’ Cal. He didn’t say anything. He just sat down, rubbed your hand, and then left, silent as death.

The one similarity between the two was that, when they did speak, they spoke as if you could hear them. Or, at least, hoped so.

“This shit isn’t funny, lil’man.”

You had seen flashes of white. You ground your teeth together. Did he seriously believe that you were drifting out in the middle of the god-forsaken nothingness _on purpose_? Because, _yeah_ , Bro, that’s **_obviously_** a thing you were doing. The weird fucking nightmares that you couldn’t even remember but still terrified you to the core? **_So much better_** than being with him or John or going through junior year or strifing on the roof or creating some sick beats on your turntables. You are the happiest **fucking** epitome of pure joy in the universe, it is you.

But as he continued talking, you realized he wasn’t blaming you for anything. He was blaming himself. He was blaming the world. He was trying his hardest to not breakdown, and was lashing out at whatever he could to get a grip on something.

You felt like a douchebag for being angry in the first place. Something really fucking serious must have happened, you figured, to make Bro this fucked up. Maybe he was trying to find you. Maybe he was stuck in this place, too.

You decided you didn’t want to know before the dreams took you again.

 

 

**== > Be The Older Strider**

The older Strider you are, but you don’t want to be a Strider at all. You haven’t wanted to be one for a very long time, and for a very important reason – a reason you still haven’t completely been able to come to terms with yet.

Dave, your younger brother, the kid you’ve raised on your own since almost as long as he could remember, the gravitational force that kept all of your shit of floating away off the handle, has not opened his eyes in three-hundred and fifty-two days – just under one full year – and it was making your loose your goddamned mind.

You, who was a seventeen-year-old robotic genius when your parents were, well, out of the picture, leaving you to take care of a little six-year-old Dave. You, who had worked so many horrific, shitty jobs just to make sure he would have all of the shit he needed or wanted. You, who eventually started your own company and releasing your own mixes as a DJ to get extra spending money for him. You, who has enough money now that Dave would never be want for _anything_ , yet still makes a point to teach his younger brother the value of a dollar. By now, he had enough that he’d be able to make his way through college on his own – like you never could have.

You, who had been driving Dave home from his buck-toothed friend's house when a drunk asshole ran two red lights and smashed into the side of your car at a solid ninety miles a-fucking-hour in what was the worst T-bone collision this area had seen in years. You, who hadn't insisted on Dave wearing a seatbelt ["because seat belts are for paranoid assholes, Bro"]. You, who had to watch the kid you fucking raised get thrown through the windshield like a rag-doll, flopping around and laying in angles you thought only Lil' Cal could manage. You, who had actually put on your seat belt for once in a blue moon and only ended up with cuts from broken glass and some major whiplash. You, who had to call the ambulance and watch as they carefully laid your bloody and broken little brother on a stretcher and whisked him away to the hospital.

You still can’t get that scene or all of his blood out of your head. You don’t think you ever will.

And things had been going so well. You had surprised Dave with a gift unlike anything else for his sixteenth: you had moved the two of you up to a swankier Washington apartment, not even fifteen minutes from his that John kid’s house. Despite it being roomier and much, much nicer than your old apartment – considering there was nothing broken [yet] – there were still swords in the refrigerator, fireworks in the dishwasher, and it only took a few weeks for the smuppets to manifest all over the floor like a velvety rainbow carpet. It was like home, but better.

You had even figured out how to get onto the roof – though it involved some less-than-legal activities, such as making an imprint of the keys to the upper levels of the fire escape – and the two of you sparred up there as often as you dared, when no ice was present. The first time he won against you in a first, he lost his mind, and spent his entire victory dinner at McDonald’s – his choice, not yours – silently preening his feathers under that almost-impassive mask of his. You were extremely proud of him, and have been just as proud of his other victories since.

There isn’t much you wouldn’t do to go toe-to-toe with Dave, sword in hand right now.

Actually, you’re not sure you can think of something you _wouldn’t_ do, because to make matters even more impossibly worse, you had to worry about the fact that _Dave might never wake up again._ Dave might never wake up again. You were trying your hardest not to give up hope, but after one year, it was getting harder and harder to imagine his eyes opening after seeing them closed for so long.

Your eyes drift over to his sleeping face, and he slouch more in your seat, shoulders slumping under the weight of a burden you never wanted to carry. Your hand is gripping onto his, like you used to do when Dave got sick as a little kid, and your thumb rubbed in steady, rhythmic circles on his skin. You're not even sure he knows you're there. Some part of you really hopes he does. You don't want him thinking that he's been in here alone. You hope he knows you've been there, and that you're not going anywhere anytime soon.

Some part of you hopes he doesn't, but that's the part of you that can't stop looking at the tubes down his throat and the beeping of machines and everything sticking out of him like he was some kind of middle school science project. You know how much Dave hates hospitals. If -- no, when, when he wakes up, you know you'll have to be there for damage control.

The way you figure, you’d be here to stop him if he tried anything.

 

**== > Bro: Check The Time**

Your eyes flick over to the clock, unobstructed by your normal, pointy shades. You don’t wear them in here, because there’s very little point in trying to look like you have it all together in front of your little brother like this. The nurses have learned not to come in to the room while you’re here, and you can slide your mask back into place whenever they need to come in or you need to leave.

You just can’t have it on here, because it was already splintering into pieces. You needed to reserve it for when you needed it – when someone could possibly see you without it on.

Huh. You’ve been here a lot longer than you’ve thought, not that your back hasn’t been groaning that fact to you over the last few hours. The visitors’ chairs weren’t exactly the most comfortable things for a man’s back. You grunt, shifting more in your chair, trying to get comfortable again before you just sigh.

It’s a deep, empty sound. You wonder if you’ve always sounded like that. You hope not.

"'mma be back later, Lil' Man," you mumble, your drawl slipping into your words. Damn, you were tired. You could feel your body dragging as you moved up to stand. You regarded him in silence for a minute before your hand carefully rested on the top of his head, ruffling the tangled, overgrown, pale mop of hair. You vaguely thought that he needed a haircut. _Maybe, when he woke up…_ "...Love ya." The words were so quiet, so subdued that you're hardly even sure you said it out loud at all. Since when did you start doubting yourself? Fuck that. You were going to make sure that Dave heard you. "I love you, Lil' Man."

It took longer than you would have liked for you to tear yourself away from his bedside, to tear your eyes away from him, and saunter out of the room. Or, at least, you looked like you were casually strolling out of there, but each step was like walking on broken pieces on your hope and your heart.

You were pretty deep when it comes down to it. You thought that you might keep that for some beats later, but your mind was already wandering back to that hospital room by the time you stepped out the front doors of the lobby.

As you rummaged for your keys in your pocket, you heard some commotion going on inside.

You vaguely wondered what the hell could be going on so late at night in a hospital to cause that much noise. Your heart clenched at the thought if it being another someone hurt, like Dave. You hoped it didn’t wake up the patients.

Or, most of them, anyway.


End file.
